


telecommunication

by wolfspa



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, M/M, don't ask me why it just is., this is set in the late 80's and early 90's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1977987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfspa/pseuds/wolfspa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Jones has been surviving in apocalyptic Oklahoma for what feels like forever. He's completely alone, and it's been months since he's seen or heard another human being, but completely by accident, he comes across a radio. </p>
<p>Miles away, Ryan Haywood has locked himself up in a radio tower, broadcasting various bits of information to anyone who might be listening. He's pretty certain that no one at all is listening, but he's doing this for himself just as much as he is for anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry the summary is ass and the first chapter is very short, but i have the second part written up already so we'll see how this goes.

Michael Jones has completely lost his sense of time. He has no idea what hour it is— only that it is ‘day’ or ‘night’, he doesn’t know what day of the week it is, and has no clue what month it is (Maybe it’s late October? The weather has gotten a bit cooler in the last few days). He’s pretty sure it’s still 1989, but even that is hard to tell. He feels like he’s been at it for decades, but the only reason he knows he hasn’t is because he would never have survived that long. He’s surprised he’s even managed to survive up to _this_ point.

Because, you know, when people start throwing around the word “zombie” no one ever takes them seriously. No one thinks “oh shit, this is going to be a problem” and _prepares_ themselves for the things that will inevitably occur. Zombies are something that happen in movies and books, it’s nothing anyone has to worry about.

Michael is absolutely one of the people who told himself that a hundred times— even after the government started issuing statements, and the hospitals stopped accepting people into their emergency rooms, because this shit is just _not possible._ Zombies don’t fucking exist and they never will.

Yeah, right.

He _had_ to accept it when his parents were killed by what people were then calling _Wayfarers,_ and it was just him and his brother, but they never really got along. It quickly became evident that it was hopeless to try to protect himself from fucking _zombies_ when he was busy protecting himself from his own brother, and after a huge fight and a stab wound, they went their separate ways.

His brother went to the city, where people are known to be able to survive and live healthy lives, but it’s where all the Wayfarers have gone as well. In the cities, you’re more likely to be killed by one of your own kind than by a zombie, so Michael takes his chances in the countryside.

He’s been living like this for months, or what he thinks are months, and somehow he’s learned to keep himself in pretty good shape. He went as far north as he could make it, and he knows he crossed the border out of Texas, but beyond that, he has no idea where he is. _Oklahoma, somewhere._ Wherever it is, it’s home now.

The pack on his back is heavy and depending on the supplies he has at the time, it makes an annoying clanging sound when he walks, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world, because the items in this bag are the only things keeping him alive. The most important of these items being one pot for cooking (that’s what makes all the noise), several bottles of various sizes filled with water, a nearly empty container of cashews that he found, which was like winning the lottery, a flint and steel, and plenty of cans of pet food.

Turns out that finding food in the god damned apocalypse was the least of Michael’s problems. Nearly every house he entered rewarded him with more cans of dog or cat food than he needed, and no, it’s probably not healthy to live on shitty food made for animals, but he does what he can with the things he finds. Sometimes he will get lucky and find a can of ‘real’ food. Spaghetti-o’s or soup, mostly, but even that is a luxury compared to what he eats most days. He lets himself have a cashew every couple of days, and the fact that the can is almost empty is a grim reminder of just how long he’s been at this.

He also carries a metal baseball bat in his right hand, and has a satellite phone strapped to his waist. Arguably, these two items are the most important, but when you really think about it, who can he call? And even if he did call someone, what would he say? He hasn’t seen another human in what feels like forever, and he can’t even remember the last time he spoke. _What’s the point anymore?_

He thinks about it sometimes, just letting the next zombie he runs into take him out, or offing himself somehow, because after all this time, what has he accomplished apart from surviving? If the government hasn’t managed to get a handle on whatever the _fuck_ is happening, then who’s to say that this isn’t how the planet is going to be for the rest of his life?

But it’s so easy to die, and Michael Jones is _not_ a quitter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael finds a radio, and the voice of god.

How Michael got himself to the 35 North is a mystery to him, because he definitely never intended to be here, but it’s so strange— seeing zero movement on one of the busiest interstates in the country. He takes a peek into some of the abandoned cars, but he doesn’t waste much time with them. Usually, if someone had stopped their car on the interstate, it was because they had run out of fuel and carried on with all of their valuables.

There’s an old GMC parked up against the center barrier, and Michael climbs onto the hood, and onto the roof, shrugging off his pack and sitting cross-legged. He digs around inside to find the foldable solar panel charger for the satellite phone, and plugs it in, positioning it on the roof of the truck, letting it soak up the sun. He doesn’t ever use the phone, but the battery tends to run down on its own after a while.

As the device charges, he takes a selfish moment to lie down, folding his arms behind his head and gazing up into the sky. He can’t see a single cloud, and while the air is slightly cooler than it has been, it doesn’t save him from the sun beating down on his face— but it feels good, he will happily take the scorching sun over gloomy clouds and rain.

He knows he shouldn’t sit around for this long, but he spoils himself this time, even closing his eyes for a couple minutes while he waits on his phone. He’s getting cocky, or maybe lazy, or a bit of both, but how can you blame him when every hour of every day has been “keep moving, stay quiet, _run._ ”

Michael estimates that it’s been about an hour, maybe less, and the phone isn’t quite fully charged, but it will have to do. By sitting still, he’s in just as much danger from wildlife as he is from zombies, so he packs up the solar panels and his phone and hops down from the roof of the truck, his feet stinging slightly when he hits the pavement. _New shoes would be nice._

He stands on tip-toes, reaching up to the roof of the car to grab his bag and pull it down, repositioning it on his shoulders. He walks passed the side of the car, ready to be on his way when something in the cab catches his eye. He turns back and uses his hand to shield the window from the glare of the sun and looks inside, his heart speeding up and skipping beats immediately.

 _A radio._ There’s a fucking portable radio sitting in the passenger seat.

His grip on the bat tightens and he shields his face with his free arm, swinging with all his strength to smash the window. He clears away the extra glass, reaches in to grab it and all he can do is fucking stare at it. It’s one of those old hand crank ones that you have to wind up to get it to work, but he’s almost afraid to turn it. _What if it doesn’t work? What if it can’t pick anything up? … What if it_ does _pick something up?_

So he doesn’t turn the crank. _Not yet._ He stuffs it into his bag with the rest of his things and carries on down the freeway. He’ll mess with it later, when he’s found a place to settle for the night.

> There’s a farm house probably a couple miles off of the interstate, and Michael takes note of the closest mile marker as he starts the journey towards it. All around him are those weird, bobbing, oil rigs that look like pickaxes pecking away at the earth, and he wonders where all that oil is getting pumped to, or if they’re even pumping anything at all anymore.

It takes a while to walk to the house, but once he’s there, he’s glad to find it seemingly abandoned. More than once, he’s entered a house thinking it was empty, only to find people hiding in the basement or in closets, desperate to shield themselves from any form of life— human or undead.

Even though the front door is unlocked (which would usually indicate that it’s been deserted), he takes caution, pinging his bat against door frames and chairs, hopefully warning anyone that might be inside. He carefully opens every door and explores all the rooms, making _damn_ sure that there’s no one else inside before he takes a moment to relax. He walks back to the front door and locks it, tugging on the knob to make sure it’s working properly.

There hasn’t been any electricity around here in weeks, but he checks to make sure that there are no lights on anyway. He didn’t see any from outside, but the sun hadn’t set yet, and now that it was getting a little darker— better safe than sorry. If _anyone_ passing by sees lights, he’s fucked.

He climbs up the stairs again, and closes himself into a small room that was probably the guest bedroom at one time. He sits on the edge of the bed, letting his feet dangle off and tosses his bag onto the floor between his legs. He props the baseball bat up against the side of the bed and sets about digging through his belongings to find dinner, and the radio.

He pulls out a package of wet dog food, peeling it open and using one of his forks to shovel some into his mouth. It’s not gourmet, that’s for sure, but after eating this shit for so long, he figures that normal food would probably taste weird to him now. And it’s not like animals eat like complete trash, some of the more expensive stuff people buy for their pets is pretty damn close to human food anyway.

After taking a couple bites, he sets it off to the side and pulls out the radio. He turns the volume down as far as it will go and stares at it for a few moments before working up the courage to twist the handle, but he does turn it, unsure of how many times he’s supposed to do it, so he just cranks away for like, a minute straight.

There’s a power button at the top, and he pushes it gently, his body flooding with relief when the little LED comes on, signalling that he has power. _It works. It fucking works._

He doesn’t hear much at first, just quiet, thick static and that’s what he thought he was going to get to be perfectly honest. But he humors himself, turning the tuner dial slowly, listening for any sort of change. There’s a few ‘different’ statics, and one that seems stuck playing that terrible “Emergency Broadcast” beeping sound, but as he’s scrolling through the frequencies, he swears he can hear something other than static, just for a brief moment, and he frantically turns the dial back again, trying to find it. The dial is really touchy, and it takes some finagling to get it to stick, and suddenly he hears it. _Oh god._

“-you happen to have electricity, _do not_ leave any lights on throughout the night. If possible, never turn them on at all. If you are physically well enough to keep moving— do it. Staying in one place for too long can be extremely hazardous. Relatively clean water can be found in Lake Murray, Chickasaw, and Toshimingo-”

A voice like fucking _velvet_ rips through Michael’s ears and he feels tears stinging his eyes. After being in the wild, defending yourself for so long, you get this sense of being completely _alone_ on earth. The thought had actually crossed his mind that he might be the last fucking human alive because even though he’s not sure what day it is anymore, he knows that he hasn’t seen another human in a startling amount of time.

In the beginning, run ins with other survivors was pretty common, especially as he tried to get north out of Texas, he would run into singles or small groups maybe twice a week, but now it feels like it’s been an eternity since he’s heard anything besides the shuffling of scattered zombies and crickets. A lot of crickets.

“If you find a gun store, it is highly recommended that you do not go inside. Wayfarers have been known to make homes in such places, in hopes of trapping people inside and killing them.” The voice continues, and Michael has no idea what he’s listening to. It’s like some sort of support station with survival tips, but he doesn’t even care what the guy is saying anymore because he’s _talking,_ and that’s more than enough.

Michael can feel a wet stream running down his cheeks, and for the first time since this whole shitstorm began, he _smiles—_ actually smiles. “Military progress seems to have been… _stunted._ ” The voice says somberly. “The U.S. government has attempted to regulate and police the major cities, but with increased rioting and military forces already stretched thin, the outcome has only been more detrimental than helpful.”

He gives the radio a few more cranks, and sets it on the bed next to him as he picks up his tin of dog food. He uses the back of his hand to wipe some of the tears away, and he doesn’t even really understand why he’s crying, it’s just _so fucking good_ to hear another voice.

After he finishes his can of food, he cranks the handle again and lies down on the bed, positioning the radio next to his ear, and dropping one hand over the side of the bed to grip loosely at the handle of his bat. The voice keeps going on and on, and he’s never been so thankful for something in his entire life. Whoever this man is, he’s a fucking gift from heaven— his voice practically singing into Michael’s ear as he closes his eyes, falling asleep easily for the first time in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk man i d k,  
> feedback and stuff is always cool bc i'm not so sure about this one ?!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Invade, collect, clean, sleep, repeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready for a long, probably boring ride.  
> more interesting plot is coming soon i swearrrr

Michael wakes up before sunrise, thinking about the man on the radio. There are too many questions that had apparently cooked in his brain over night, because his mind is reeling. What’s his name? Where did he come from? What is he doing in a radio station when the world is ending and _how_ does he know about the military? What else does he know?

He almost isn’t convinced that it actually happened— that it was just some sort of sick hallucination his tired mind had come up with, but there it is. A small, hand powered radio sitting on the bed pressed up against his cheek and as he straightens up, he can feel the indent the plastic had left on his skin. He runs his fingers over the lines on his face and smiles to himself. It's been a long fucking time since he slept so well.

He wants to turn it on again, to see if the man is still talking away, to hear that voice again, but he's already spent too much time in this house, and it would be incredibly foolish to use the radio while he's outside without the protection of walls to dampen the noise. He will have to wait for nightfall to use it again, but if there's one thing Michael can do, it's wait. His whole fucking life has practically been waiting.

So Michael stuffs the radio into his bag along with the rest of his things and he takes stock, mentally making note of everything he has and although he still has a few cans of animal food left, he knows he needs more. Plus, he hasn't bathed in a while and extra water never hurts, so he deems it a collection day— scavenging and digging through other people's belongings, which was really weird at first. It's a little unsettling to root through dresser drawers and closets of people who have family photos still up on the walls and half eaten pets who ended up trapped in their backyards, but Michael tries to understand. These are things that have to be done to survive.

And Michael is running low on food and he needs a new change of clothes.

He knows there’s a decent sized creek or stream somewhere nearby, and although he’s mostly surrounded by farm land, there’s plenty of other houses within a day’s walking distance, so he finds his toothbrush and walks into the bathroom connected to the bedroom. He’s almost nervous about what might be on the other side of the door— he’s seen some legitimately terrifying things that had been trapped in closets or cellars, but thankfully, there are no horrors waiting on the floor or in the bathtub as the door creaks open.

Michael leans over the sink and pushes up the faucet handle, and thankfully _some_ water comes out. Houses that run on city water instead of well water usually had working tap, and while the notion of running water is pleasant, he worries about how close to a city he might actually be. He has no idea where he is— the only thing he knows is the mile marker from the highway, but even that isn’t really enough information.

He brushes quickly, and crudely, but it’s hopefully enough to save his teeth in the long run and shuts off the water. He crams everything back into his bag and triple checks, counting over the things he’d taken out: toothbrush, fork, satellite phone, _the radio._ He ends up eyeing the device again, wishing he had the time to hear that voice again, but he knows he doesn’t. The sun is beginning to rise, and if he wants to get anything done, he has to start moving.

There’s a closet and dresser in the bedroom, and Michael looks down at his clothes— which weren’t even really his— and lifts the hem of the t-shirt he was wearing and wiggles his fingers through the holes that had formed. He misses _his_ clothes and he can’t remember the last time he’d worn something of his own, because for months he’s been stealing from the dead.

He’ll need something a little warmer now, a sweater or a long sleeved t-shirt for the colder months that are coming. He can tell he’s still pretty far south, but winter around here can still drop below freezing, so he pulls open the door of the closet and searches for something suitable.

It’s mostly women’s clothes, but he finds a flannel button up shirt and a clean pair of socks at least. He searches the other rooms and eventually finds a pair of clean boxers that actually almost fit and he stuffs a couple extra into his bag just in case. He zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder, stepping into the hallway and stopping at the top of the stairs. He has to be careful, even though he’s pretty sure that the house was locked down when he went to sleep, that hasn’t stopped zombies from getting inside before.

Luckily, they can’t do stairs. Something about the way their legs work refuses to let them lift their feet enough to get up a flight of stairs. Michael once holed himself up in an abandoned hospital for three days, and upon entering the stairwell to go back down, he found eleven of them all piled up at the bottom, attempting to claw their way up. He ended up having to repel himself down out of a window.

Thankfully there aren’t any heaped on the stairs, and he works his way down as quietly as he can. The front door is still shut tight, no windows have been broken and everything is quiet, so Michael makes his way into the kitchen to look for extra food. There’s a refrigerator in a corner, still plugged in but without power, and Michael doesn’t dare open it for fear of what kind of moldy abomination might come tumbling out. He sticks to the cupboards and cabinets, opening them rapidly and in almost no time, he’s opened them all— with no reward. The house has practically been cleared out and who knows, maybe the owners had the hindsight to take all of it with them, or maybe it’s already been raided by other survivors or Wayfarers.

Either way, there’s nothing here for him, so he checks the windows and doors to make sure there’s no zombies, _or humans_ outside and steps out into the crisp morning air. Judging by the low lying fog and the sun, it’s not even seven yet, and Michael knows he’s got a long day ahead of him.

> It had been several hours, and Michael had broken into about half a dozen houses along the nearby creek, quickly sweeping through them and taking the valuable foods. There are some things like chips or crackers that he avoids all together because they’ll probably just dehydrate him, but after a lot of thorough searching, he’s gathered a decent cache that will probably last him a week— maybe more if he’s careful.

He sits himself on the edge of the creek, only a couple hundred feet from the next closest house, but he’s done ‘gathering’ for today, and he desperately needs to wash. The morning had started off chilly but as the sun came out, and Michael was running in and out of homes, he had gotten incredibly sweaty, and he was more than happy to finally ditch these old clothes.

He searches through his back to find the shirt and underwear he’d grabbed in the morning and sets it out on the bank. He eyes the radio, and he knows this is a terrible idea, using something like this out in the open where anyone or _anything_ could hear him and come running, but he’s almost surrounded by trees and he hasn’t seen anyone in so long, so he pulls it out and starts cranking.

Even the sound of the handle turning seems too loud in the dead quiet of nature but he’s _desperate_ , he’s so desperate just to hear that voice again. It’s like an extremely addicting drug— the prospect of not being alone anymore. He’s been dying to turn on the radio all day, the thought was constantly running through his mind as he walked through empty houses and over decrepit farm land. He had to stop himself more than once from locking himself up in a room and cranking up the radio and just sitting there for hours.

And it’s very careless, and Michael knows he can’t make a habit of this but just one time can’t hurt him, so he gives the radio a few more turns and sets it on the bank along with his clothes. He turns the volume knob as high as he dares and switches on the power. He starts peeling off his old, sweaty clothes before he realises what he’s hearing. It’s not the man talking, which normally would have upset him, if the radio hadn’t been playing _music._ Real fucking music like the kind you used to hear before the world went to shit, and it’s never sounded so damn good.

He hums to himself quietly as he strips down to his underwear and sinks into the water. The stream has a gentle flow to it, and the water is only a few feet deep— almost shallow enough that he could sit down and let the current wash over him, but he figures he’s pushing his luck far enough already, and settles for crouching down to splash the cool water onto his reddened skin. For all the time he spends in the sun, he figured he would have a tan by now but instead, he just gets red, and then _freckles._

He doesn’t have any soap, but he does his best and cleans off as much of himself as he can as he listens to the music play quietly on the bank. He wonders what the guy running the radio station is doing now, why he isn’t talking and where he might be. Michael wonders if he’s _close_ — if he could find the tower if he looked hard enough and the thought alone has his heart racing. What he wouldn’t give to see another human’s face.

The song ends and as another one starts, he knows he should finish up and get out, but there’s this feeling of normalcy as he occupies himself with washing. There’s good music playing and his clothes are strewn out on the bank and it’s sunny out and the water isn’t too cold, like if he didn’t think about it too hard, he could forget that the world was ending around him.

But he shakes the thoughts from his head, because this is exactly how people get themselves killed. _They get sloppy,_ and Michael isn’t about to give up and die now, not when he knows that there could be another survivor nearby. He pulls his jeans into the water, dunking them into the stream and rubbing them against the smooth rocks on the bottom. It won’t be enough to clean them completely, but it’s enough to get most of the dirt and grime off of them for now.

The radio starts crackling and squeaking as the battery runs down, and if anything, it was at least a good experiment to see how long the charge would last. He hops up onto the bank again, careful not to drip water all over the dry clothes and he kicks off the boxer-briefs, leaving them and the rest of his old clothes scattered along the bank.

Michael lets himself dry off as much as he can before he feels too vulnerable standing out in the wilderness butt naked, and pulls on the new clothes. He buttons up the shirt, rolling the sleeves up halfway and the shirt feels kind of sticky on his skin. He pulls on the boxers and turns off the radio, immediately put off by the sudden silence as he stuff it back into his pack. After checking again to make sure he has everything, he folds his pants over his forearm and throws his back onto his shoulders, making his way to the house nearby. It’s not exactly sunset _yet,_ but it’s been a long day and he feels tired. A few extra hours of rest will be good for him.

He had already scouted and cleared the home before taking a dip in the creek, and since he’s still half naked, he trudges up the stairs quickly and shuts himself into one of the bedrooms. The light colored curtains let just enough light through for the room to be well lit, and Michael drapes his pants over the back of a chair, hoping that they’ll be dry enough by morning.

He plops down onto the bed and his stomach grumbles loudly. He hasn’t eaten anything all day and as hungry as he is, his first priority is to pull out the radio and start cranking again. He turns the handle and counts out about two minutes, hoping that’s enough to give him plenty of time to eat his food and get settled down. He turns on the power and the room is filled with more music, making Michael sigh happily.

He pulls a can of ravioli out of his backpack and cuts it open with an old knife he found. It rips up most of the pasta in the can, but at least it gets the job done and he doesn’t waste any time digging in. It’s not warm and it’s canned food, but it might as well be gourmet compared to what he’s used to eating. He’s so busy shoveling the food into his mouth that he hardly notices that the music stops, and is suddenly replaced by a low, easy voice that he recognises instantly.

“It is six-thirty-seven p.m. and I hate to interrupt the music, but I hope that the forecast for the week is a fair trade.” Michael smiles to himself as he listens to the man speak. _How_ this guy has access to weather and military information, he will never know. “Tonight is going to be a little chilly. If you’re outside in a car or tent, I would suggest finding shelter a little more substantial. There’s about a fifty percent chance of rain tomorrow morning but by midday, we’ll have the sun shining down on us again.”

The voice carries on like that for a few minutes, and Michael is having a hard time paying attention to the weather when all he can think about is where this guy is, what he looks like, or what his name is. Is he alone at his station? Or maybe he has a couple friends or co-workers to help him. All he knows is that he would _kill_ to be there.

He finishes his can of food and throws the tin onto the floor, lying down on the bed and curling himself up in the blankets and pillows. “Oh, and uh,” The voice says. “Before we get back to the music for a while, I should mention that if you planned on heading towards Kansas City, you might want to think about a different settlement. The rioting and Wayfarer attacks have been especially violent there lately. Unfortunately the next closest one would be—” Michael can hear the rustling sound of paper, like a map being flipped open. “St. Louis, or maybe Des Moines. I know it’s a long way off, but unless you are heavily armed, you should avoid Kansas City.”

Michael sighs heavily— not that he was headed towards Kansas City. He does his best to bypass all the settlements, dangerous or not, but it’s disheartening to hear that even the places people had created specifically for safety are starting to crumble. It’s been so long since he’s seen or heard a _zombie_ that he wonders if it’s finally come down to a test of humanity. Maybe all of the infected have been neutralized and now it’s just about humans coping and surviving with one another.

The thought of _that_ is almost more terrifying than the fucked up disease that caused all this mess in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY were you thinking ''man a fanmix for this fic would be really great'' ?? well you're in luck!  
> [check it out](http://wolfspa.tumblr.com/post/93285420306/telemiscommunication-the-end-of-a-world-for) !!!


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